


We Don’t Cry

by Mersayde



Series: Ghastly Antiques [13]
Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Mentions of Harassment, self blame, vague but not about rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 11:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15639528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mersayde/pseuds/Mersayde
Summary: venting to empty spacewritten: 11/5/17





	We Don’t Cry

Sometimes she see’s the word harassment, sometimes with the word sexual used as its prefix.

And she wonders if she even fits in there,

if what happened to her was even a big deal,

if she was just being dramatic,

if she’s over complicating what seemed like a fun time for everyone else.

She doesn’t know if she’s justified to feel like she’s a victim or a survivor, those words seem so _harsh._

She said no. _So many_ times.

But did she say it enough?

Was she loud enough, was she assertive enough?

She remembers being dragged against her will.

Her weak arms and no grip heals fighting against a wet floor and crushing grip.

There was pressure, so much social pressure, to just let loose, and have fun.

She felt so weak and her voice felt so small and she doesn’t know why she didn’t leave, why she didn’t push through the crowd of people surrounding her. She should’ve listened to the warnings, to the cautionary tales in the atmosphere. She just wanted to be cool for once.

To try to fit in. She hates the labels people give her. Can’t they see she’s trying to be what they want? That their words, even though they shouldn’t, break down her sensibility.

She fights and fights and says no as many times as the veins in her chest allow.

She knows it wouldn’t have worked anyway.

She just wishes she could know, wishes she didn’t remember it, or their hands on her body, or their laughs, or the brightly dimmed lights, or their misguided encouragements. She wishes she didn’t see flashes of smoked out images, wishes she couldn’t still feel his hands on her hips, as her body shakes in fear. She wishes his touch hadn’t seared through her dress and branded itself onto her skin. If she breathes, she can still smell the humid excitement; if she blinks, she can still see their faces, happy, satisfied. All in on a long standing joke. And when she clenches her fist, she hopes to draw blood, hopes that it can wash the memories of the fabric she felt under her fingertips away. They all looked so pleased, patted him on the back because he’s a _legend_. She remembers their words the next day even though she hit them continuously behind laughs and told them to shut up.

She knows they thought she was joking, but inside she was still scared. Still reluctant to believe that they’d take from their friend so willingly.

_You’re a legend. You finally got her!_

It’s hurts knowing that despite everything, she’s still a notch, an accomplishment, something to brag about through cryptic smiles and pumped fists.

But it was a party. What did she expect?

And if it was traumatic as she says, then why is she still friends with them, why does she still laugh along to their stupid jokes? Why is she so complacent in their presence?

 _They’re not bad people,_ She concludes, _they just made a ~~mistake~~ , right?_

She can’t help but wonder in the midst of redirecting blame and sorrow: _What about me?_

She doesn’t know who to talk to about it, how to eloquently articulate the unsettling feeling that consumes her lungs when she thinks of it. She wonders if its even worth it, if anyone would even believe her. Or if they’d writer her off as a dramatic mess. ( Which, she thinks, is a fair summation of who she is. )

She hates remembering, she hates how isolated she feels because of it. How obsolete, and trivial her experience feels in light of others.

Should she remember more or feel more or hurt more? Why can’t she just get over what seems like a silly action warranted at parties? Why can’t she just let this go. It would be better that way. Better than being ambushed with nausea and quickened heart beats because it all comes running back into her mind like a bad marathon.

It wasn’t even a big deal. It wasn’t. It was just fun. It was just her _growing up._ Becoming a _big girl_. At least that’s what their mutual friends said to her. They turned her into a shitty inside joke.

She should’ve stayed home. She just wanted to step out of her comfort zone with a few acquaintances that begged her to go. She wanted to be considered fun, easy going. She wanted to be cool.

 _How fucking stupid am I?_ She screams, hitting her palm on her head over and over again.

And now she can’t help but berate herself with the same achingly brutal questions and memories.

**Author's Note:**

> comments? kudos? fave parts?


End file.
